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I gasp, reaching for his arm, but he grabs my wrist and pins it to the wall with one hand, his expression unchanged by my resistance.
“About Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithfull in 1967? When they were allegedly caught in Keith Richards’ estate during a drug raid, while he ate a Mars bar out of her cunt?”
I feel something shoved into me and think, oh, God. Oh, Jesus. The chocolate bar is inside me. It’s so filthy and crass, I want to spit in his face, but I can’t help but shiver with pleasure, clenching around the thing.
“Do you think there’s truth to that rumor?” Mal’s lips are practically moving on mine now.
I can feel my puckered nipples rubbing against his body. My breathing is so labored, I am practically heaving. It feels like I’m tipping over an edge of something huge, like I am never going to be the same again.
“I think—” I start.
He pushes the chocolate bar in and out, in and out, thrusting it inside me deeper and faster, and I squeeze my eyes shut and hate myself, because I’m about to come.
You’re cheating on your boyfriend, I scream inwardly. He is making a point, and you are falling for it. Tell him to stop.
“Answer?” Mal asks indifferently, his lips still ghosting mine. “Yes? No? Maybe? Unsure?”
“St…st…sto…”
“Say it,” he urges, his lips crushing mine, but not kissing them—punishing, more like. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I can’t do it.
I can’t do it, and I break down in tears as wave after wave of pleasure begins to crash over me, head to toe, and I’m coming hard against the chocolate bar. It’s the ultimate sensation of pleasure and pain, but the guilt thrown into this makes it somehow, shamefully, even more erotic.
My knees buckle, but Mal keeps me on my feet, his hand clasping the back of my neck as he withdraws what’s left of the chocolate bar slowly. I can feel my sticky thighs gluing together, the gooey, melted milk chocolate dense over my flesh.
Mal lifts the bar between us, and it’s ruined, molten, the white waffle sticking out.
“Hungry?” he asks coolly.
I shake my head, feeling my tears fly everywhere.
I cheated on Callum, just like my mom cheated on the guy she left behind for Glen. I’m no better than her.
Mal takes a bite of the chocolate, shrugging, and suddenly, my mouth waters. I am so, so hungry. Without asking me again, he angles the bar toward my mouth.
“Tastes like you.” He licks his lips.
I take a tentative bite, then another one. I finish off the bar. I barely have time to swallow before his lips crash down on mine, and I moan into his mouth, helpless.
I wish I could rewire my thoughts back to my boyfriend. Or that Callum was an abusive, awful man who had it coming. But this is not the case.
But the truth is, I can’t.
The truth is, I don’t think I ever could, even before I met Mal in New York again. The cracks were always there, weeds slipping through them, even when Callum and I were a normal couple facing normal issues. I always compared him to Mal. I longed to feel Mal’s lips on mine, his heady scent wrapped around me like a collar, owning me without even trying. The difference was, I didn’t feel guilty, because the possibility of that ever happening seemed unlikely.
In the unlikely event.
I whimper as Mal takes my face in both his hands and deepens the kiss, growling like a beast. His tongue meets mine halfway, and my eyelids drop shut.
My phone pings, and I rip my mouth from his, snapping out of the moment. I’m cupping my face as I scurry to the breakfast nook. I flip it over to see the number on the screen.
Callum.
It’s like he has a sixth sense. How did he know?
“Hey, love,” he says, sounding cheerful when I answer. “Summer called me. She told me about Richards running off. What a wanker. She suggested I hop on a plane to keep you company. What do you reckon? Still want me to come for New Year’s?”
I look up and see Mal with his elbow propped on the side of the fridge, raising his eyebrows in a really? look. I shake my head. My thighs are cemented together with dried chocolate. What have I done?
I look away from Mal, clearing my throat.
“Yes!” I say, trying to match his jovial tone. “Please come over. I would love to have you here.”
When I end the call, I press my forehead against the breakfast nook and close my eyes. Do I get a special award for being so stupid? A discount at my local library? Anything? Seems a bit surreal I’d be left to my own devices after pulling something like this.
I need to tell him. I need to tell Callum.
